


Soul Marked

by VagrantWriter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Aftermath of Torture, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bullying, But cute age difference, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, Kid Fic, M/M, Multi, Psychological Torture, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-11 06:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15966191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: The First Men called it "soul marked," but that knowledge has passed into myth, along with grumpkins and snarks. The blood of the First Men still runs through the North and the Iron Islands, though, and sometimes, if one knows what to look for, they can see the threads of Fate binding two souls together.Theon has five soulmates.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my obligatory foray into the soulmate AU, inspired by the east Asian folklore of the [red thread of fate](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_thread_of_fate) and palm reading symbolism, because I live for that shit. It's also a blatant excuse to trot out my favorite Theon pairings, who will all be making appearances here.
> 
> I wanted to post the prologue to make sure the lore makes sense. Let me know if anything is unclear or confusing or just plain contradictory so I can tweak it.

When Theon first met Robb, the son of the man who had taken him from his home, it was an overcast day. They had just ridden into the courtyard at Winterfell, and the ground was muddy and churned up from the horses’ hooves. A greenlander helped Theon down from his horse, and Theon found himself ankle-deep in muck. In a strange place surrounded by strange people. And the man who had taken him, who refused to look at him.

But Theon looked at him, watched him. This was the man who could have him killed. He felt it unwise to let someone like that out of his sight.

The greenlander who had helped him down nudged him with a muddy boot, and Theon stepped forward, guardedly. A woman had come out to meet the man who could kill him. The woman had bright red hair. And so did the boy at her side. He couldn’t be more than five years old, and he screamed, “Papa!” as he tore across the courtyard towards the man who could kill him.

He latched onto Lord Stark’s side, small hands gripping tightly at his cloak. And for a second, his gaze wandered past his father to Theon, standing there, watching the both of them.

“Papa…who’s that?”

Theon turned. Turned his back on the man who could kill him. And sprinted away.

Because the boy had a blue band around his index finger. And the mark on Theon’s index finger, which had been black his entire life, was now blue as well.

 

***

 

“You can see them, love, can’t you?”

Theon took his mother’s hand and traced the rings on her fingers. They weren’t jewelry, but rather a sort of mark, a band of solid color near the base of the knuckle. She only had two: one on her thumb and one of her ring finger.

“What are they?” he asked. At five, he was too old to be sitting on his mother’s lap. Maron and Rodrik and maybe even Asha would tease him if they saw him.

Alannys smiled and smoothed his hair. “They’re soul markers,” she whispered, as if it were a secret shared between the two of them. “My grandmother said Fate binds two souls together at birth by wrapping an invisible string around their fingers.”

“An…invisible string?” Theon tried to picture it, but he wasn’t sure what an invisible string looked like.

“Well, you can’t see them or feel them,” Alannys said, then laughed. “Otherwise everyone would be tripping over them, since they’re everywhere.”

“They _are_?”

“Yes. Everyone…” She stopped and corrected herself. “ _Almost_ everyone has at least one, and oftentimes more. That’s a lot of strings that everyone would be tripping over, don’t you think?”

“You have two strings,” he observed, then held out his own hand. “I have five.”

“That’s because you were made to be loved, my love.” She tickled him, and he giggled and squirmed in her lap. With a soft sigh, she grew serious again and shifted him. “No, you can’t see the strings, but you _can_ see where Fate tied them around your fingers.” She stretched out her hand, and he laid his in her palm.

“What do the colors mean?” He thought it was unfair that all of his had to be the same color while she had a red one. And some people had more colors than that—blue and pink and green.

“Different souls are connected in different ways,” she said. “When two souls who have been tied by Fate meet each other, the thread changes color to show how they go together. That’s how they know each other. Or, at least, that’s how it worked a long time ago, when people knew how to _see_.”

Theon cocked his head in confusion. “People don’t know how to see?”

“They’ve forgotten,” Alannys said. “Now most people can’t see what’s on their own fingers. Nor do they care to.”

“Oh, is that why…?” Theon began to ask. He had been utterly confused when he’d asked Asha why everyone had marks on their fingers and she’d responded as if he were crazy. At first he thought maybe it was just one of her jokes, but he’d since come to realize that she really _couldn’t_ see them. Lots of people couldn’t see them. In fact, only his mother seemed to know what he was talking about.

“My grandmother could see them,” Alannys said, gently rocking the chair back and forth. Outside the window, rain battered the pane. But the room inside was safe and still. “She taught me how Fate joins two souls together. When you meet someone fate has chosen for you, the mark on _your_ finger and the mark on _that_ person’s finger will turn the same color. But until then, it will be black.”

Theon prodded the lines on his mother’s fingers again. “You have a black one.”

“I haven’t met that person yet,” she explained patiently.

“But you did meet this person.” He traced the red line on her thumb.

She grew quiet for a moment. “Yes.”

Theon scrunched up his face. “It’s not the same color as the one of Daddy’s hand.”

“No.” It came out as a faraway whisper. “It’s not.”

Theon didn’t understand his mother’s sadness until his own rings began to change their colors.


	2. Blue is True

Robb Stark, heir to Winterfell and son of the man who could kill him, was his first soul mate.

 _Shit_!

Nine-year-old Theon sat crouched in the stable as the greenlanders yelled for him, rubbing furiously at the mark on his index finger. Blue. _A bond in blue is a bond for true_ , his mother had said. The mark wouldn’t fade. It was as stuck on as a tattoo.

 _No, I can’t be bound to a greenlander_ , he cursed. And a boy at that. What would his father think?

In a panic, he sifted through the dirty hay until he found a sharp rock.

 _I’ll cut it out_!

He hadn’t managed more than a few scrapes when one of the stable hands found him and dragged him from his hiding place. He was hauled back to the courtyard and made to stand before Ned Stark, who deigned to look at him for perhaps the first time since they’d left Pyke.

“Theon.” His voice was gentle, with just a hint of reprimand. “You know you cannot run.”

“I wasn’t…running.” Theon stared at the ground. A splotch of bright red bloomed near his boots, and he realized he was dripping blood from his hand.

Ned knelt. “We aren’t going to harm you, Theon.”

Theon gnawed on his lip. “Unless my father rebels.”

A hard look came over Lord Stark’s face, and he nodded. “Aye. But he won’t.”

 _You wouldn’t have taken me if you didn’t think he would_. But Theon didn’t say that.

“You are my ward now, Theon, and you will be treated as a member of my household.”

Theon very much doubted that.

“And as such, you will be expected to follow the rules here. Is that understood?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Ned gave a single nod that might have been mistaken for approval were it not for the grim look on his face. “Good. I would like you to meet the members of my house. My wife…” He glanced over his shoulder, but Theon saw no sign of the redheaded woman. “I will introduce you to my wife later.” And then he mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “After I’ve had a chance to explain myself.”

Theon sniffed and sucked on his finger. It was still bleeding, and it was so dry here, his skin stung.

“In the meantime,” Ned continued, “I would like to introduce you to my oldest, Robb.” He beckoned with his hand, the way one would summon a dog, and the redheaded boy stepped dutifully stepped forward. “Robb, this is Theon Greyjoy. He’s going to be living with us.”

Robb stared unblinking at Theon. “Your finger.”

Theon pulled the finger out of his mouth. He did not need this child thinking he was a milksop who still sucked his thumb. But Robb continued to stare, and Theon’s heart skipped faster. He was suddenly very warm under the collar. Why was he staring like he could _see_ the blue ring there?

Robb lifted one chubby finger and pointed. “It’s bleeding,” he noted.

The wind left Theon. He was so relieved he felt he might faint. “It’s nothing,” he said tersely. “Ironborn don’t cry over a little cut.”

“Still, best we get that seen to,” Ned said, standing. “Robb, why don’t you show Theon to the maester’s quarters?”

Robb beamed and stepped forward, hand held out. All it took was a flash of blue on his finger for Theon to recoil.

“No.”

Robb stopped, clearly confused.

“Don’t touch me!” Theon snapped. “I’m fine!”

Robb turned his confused look back to Ned, as if his father would tell him what to do. Theon felt like laughing at him. _Your lord father’s not going to help you_ , _you little brat_. Painful images of reaching out to his father, crying, begging. He’d debased himself in front of the greenlanders with his womanish wailing; no wonder his father hadn’t seen fit to even look at him. And so he didn’t laugh, but cringed at his own behavior, so unbecoming of a lord.

“As you say,” Ned said, bringing Theon back to the present and his stinging finger. “I’ll have someone show you to your room. For now, I must speak with my wife. We will see you at dinner.” And, guiding Robb by the shoulder, he turned without another word to Theon.

 

***

 

Theon sat alone in his room—his new room—idly picking at the scab on his finger. Robb couldn’t see the mark and apparently Ned couldn’t either. That was good. But what if there was somebody here at Winterfell who could? Would they tell the Starks? Would the Starks blame _him_ for being bound to their son, for making him a boy lover? He certainly hadn’t asked for it and didn’t want it. He wasn’t a boy lover. And yet there was the mark on his finger, telling him and anyone who could see otherwise.

He tried to recall everything his mother had taught him about _blue_.

 _Blue is true_.

“Blue like the ocean,” she explained, pointing to a sailor and his wife, both with blue bands around their ring fingers. “Souls bound by blue are bound as deeply as the ocean. A wise man knows to respect the power of the ocean. Respect and trust, that is what pulls those types of soulmates together.”

But Theon would never respect a Stark, or trust one for that matter. Fate must have made some mistake.

He was pulled violently from his thoughts by a knock on the door. His head shot up, and when the knock came again, he was surprised how soft and undemanding it truly was. When he’d been caught unaware, it had sounded like the urgent pounding of the executioner come to take his head.

Still, his heart hammered in his chest. He sat there, on the bed, unsure if he should answer or not.

“Are you in there?” A child’s voice.

Robb fucking Stark.

“Go away!” Theon hollered.

“Father says I should invite you down to dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.” Which was true. He didn’t know how he could be expected to physically keep anything down, let alone the disgusting food these greenlanders ate.

To his horror, the door began to creak open. Quickly, he shoved his scabbed hand under his ass, as if Robb would somehow catch him in the act of something…unseemly.

Robb poked his head of red curls in. “Are you not feeling well? I can get the maester.”

“I’m fine,” Theon snarled. “I want to be alone.”

“Oh,” Robb said stupidly. And then stupidly looked around the room. “Father says it would be best if you came down and met everyone.”

 _Father says, Father says_. Theon wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“I don’t want to meet anyone. I want to be by myself.”

“But—”

“Leave me alone!” Theon cried. He sprang up from the bed and gave Robb a shove that sent him reeling back a few steps. Just enough that he could slam the door in his face. He stood there, pressing his weight against the door, feeling his heart beat somewhere up in his throat. He’d just pushed Ned Stark’s son. The man who could have him killed.

 _If my father rebels. Not for pushing his brat_.

“Theon,” a plaintive voice called from the other side of the door.

“Go away,” Theon answered. _If your father wants me at dinner, he’ll have to come up himself and drag me down. The way he dragged me away from home_.

He thought Robb would try one more time, but after a few moments, the soft patter of feet told him the boy had given up. With a relieved sob, Theon sank to the floor and buried his face in his knees. And then he began to sob.

 

***

 

Apparently Robb hadn’t given up, though. He had merely offered a temporary surrender.

Over the next few weeks, he was always there, taking any opportunity to talk to Theon, ask him questions, follow him around. It drove Theon mad. Why couldn’t Robb just ignore him like everyone else did?

Ned never did come to drag him down to dinner—he sent one of his men to do that, and only on the third straight day of Theon refusing. Ned didn’t want to look at him, let alone touch him. He remained cold and aloof, much as Lady Stark did. They didn’t want him here, and he didn’t want to be here. 

The servants were formal around him, and though he couldn’t find any fault with their treatment of him as befitting a lord of his station, he always had the distinct impression they put as little effort into their dealings with him as they could reasonably be expected to get away with. They never spoke a word more than was needed and hurried from the room once their task was complete.

But Robb—Robb was like his little shadow. He apparently hadn’t told anyone about Theon shoving him, so at least he wasn’t a tattletale. But he was a pain, toddling along beside him or behind him whenever Theon picked up his pace to get rid of him. He was persistent, like a flea that somehow managed to avoid every attempt to pinch it. And he talked incessantly.

“Father says you come from an island and no trees grow on the island. And you have to cross the ocean to get there and there are sharks in the water. Are there sharks? I’ve never seen a shark. I’ve never seen the ocean. Father says you can’t drink it because of the salt. Why does the ocean have salt in it?”

No pause for breath. The kid obviously wasn’t interested in a two-way conversation, not that Theon had any plans of answering. He just wanted to be alone, to go sit in the hot spring in the godswood. It was so dry here. His lips were constantly chapped and the skin on his knuckles was constantly peeling, though not peeling off the awful colors of the bands around his fingers.

Somewhere along their walk, Robb had picked up a branch and was swinging it around like a sword. “Farther always goes away to fight,” he said, “and then he comes back with someone. And it makes Mother angry. He says he’s done fighting, but I don’t know. I don’t remember the last time he left, but this time I did. Mother was crying and begging him not to leave.”

Something about his wording set Theon’s skin on edge. “Because she’s a woman,” he snapped. “That’s what they do. Cry and beg, because they can’t do anything else.”

Robb let his twig-sword drag in the dirt, creating a line behind them. He seemed surprised that Theon had even said anything. “Father brought you back from the fighting. Did you do any fighting?”

Theon snorted. “Of course I did. I killed twenty—no, thirty Northmen all by myself.”

Robb’s eyes went wide, and Theon smirked. “They taught you how to fight on the island you came from?”

“Ironborn are born knowing how to fight.”

“Really?” Robb breathed in childlike awe. “Rodrik Cassel says I’m too young to learn, but I’m not much younger than you.” He held out his little twig-sword. “Will _you_ teach me how to fight?”

Theon curled his lip in disgust. “What? No. Fuck off.”

“Please.”

“No, leave me alone.”

“But I want to learn to fight like you.”

“Well, you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want anything to do with you.”

Robb jutted out his upper lip. “You don’t want anything to do with _anyone_.” He dropped his twig-sword and stomped his foot. “Maybe if you wanted people around, you wouldn’t be so sad all the time.”

Theon whirled on him, and felt a savage pleasure when the boy flinched back. “I’m not _sad_ ,” he growled.

Robb recovered himself, and with a determined frown, took a defiant step forward. “You _are_ sad. If you had a friend, you wouldn’t be so sad.”

Rage swelled up so that all Theon could see was white. “I don’t want to be friends with you!” _I don’t want to be your friend. I don’t want to be your soulmate_. “I hate you!” Before he could stop himself, he shoved the boy. Not the light shove he’d given him to get him out of his room. He put way too much force into it, though he didn’t realize until Robb was halfway to the ground, arms flailing wildly.

The boy landed with a dull thud on his back and lay there for several moments. Several moments in which Theon’s heart didn’t beat. _I’ve killed him_. Then, Robb slowly sat up. Stared at Theon. And began to cry.

“Don’t cry.” The white anger gave way, and a too-real clarity came seeping back in. He’s pushed Lord Stark’s son to the ground, might have actually hurt him. He hurried to kneel down next to him, and Robb continued to wail. “Don’t cry!” Theon hissed, louder, and his anger began to build again. “It’s just a fall.” _You don’t have any right to cry over something as small as that_. “Don’t be such a woman.”

“You…” Robb sniffed. “You hate me!”

“I don’t…” Theon cursed to himself. “I shouldn’t have said that.” _Please don’t tell your father I said that_.

Robb wiped at his eyes. His hands were scraped and bloody. “Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Yes you do.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I just…” Theon drew his knees up to his chin. “I just said that so you would leave me alone.”

“You want me to leave you alone because you hate me.”

“I want you to leave me alone because I’m scared.”

Robb’s crying abruptly cut off, and an awkward silence rushed in. Only then, with his admission hanging in the air between them, did Theon realize he’d said that aloud.

He needed to take it back, more desperately than his harsh words and shoving Robb to the ground. “I—I mean—”

“I know,” Robb said. Barely a whisper, but it cut Theon off dead. He put a chubby hand on Theon’s knee. “I know you’re scared. That’s why you shouldn’t be alone.”

Theon gritted his teeth, because he could feel tears gathering in his eyes and he would rather die than cry in front of Robb Stark. “I hate it here,” he said. “It’s dry and the food’s terrible and everyone looks at me like I’m vermin.” He sniffled and hated himself.

“I don’t think you’re vermin.”

“What makes you think I care what you think?”

Robb shrugged. “I don’t know. But not everyone thinks you’re vermin because _I_ don’t. So…there’s that.”

Despite himself, a chuckle escaped Theon’s lips. He shook his head. “Why do you even care?”

“I don’t know,” Robb repeated. “I don’t like to see people all alone and sad.”

Theon looked at the boy’s fingers—the blue ring around his index finger, the black one around his middle finger, and the green one around his ring finger. _No, you don’t_ , he thought, knowing who wore the matching green band.

He let out a long, weary sigh. “I’m sorry I shoved you. Are you hurt?”

Robb wiped the snot from his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. Then looked down, as if assessing himself. His eyes were puffy and red, and his hands were cut. “I…hit my head,” he said, shamefacedly.

“Shit.” _I cracked his head open_! “Here, let me see.” Without asking, he sat up and ran his hand along the back of the boy’s head. And sure enough, there was a sizeable lump forming under all that red hair, though, thankfully, no blood. “I think it’s just a bump.”

Robb prodded at the welt. “It’s…not so bad.” He winced and drew in a sharp breath as his fingers brushed the sore spot.

“You don’t need to see the maester,” Theon said. “Right? You don’t need to tell your father about this, right?”

Robb blinked and pulled his hand away. “I’ve been hurt worse.”

Theon let out a deep sigh of relief. He pushed himself to his feet and then held out a hand to help Robb. “Good. You’re tough…like an Ironborn.”

Robb’s face lit up, and he took the offered hand. “I am?”

“Right. You know what Ironborn are good at, besides fighting and being tough?”

Robb shook his head.

“They’re good at keeping secrets. So you don’t have to tell anyone what happened. And you definitely don’t need to tell anyone what I told you.”

Robb tilted his head. “What you told me?”

“You know…” Theon scratched at his arm. “About being scared.”

Robb’s eyebrows rose. “Oh.”

“You’ll keep it secret?”

He whipped his head back and forth. “Of course. I won’t tell anyone. Not even Jon. Not even Father!”

Theon felt himself smiling, not entirely a smirk. He let the kid follow him into the godswood and spent the afternoon regaling Robb with (only slightly exaggerated) stories about the Iron Islands and the Ironborn. Robb sat on a rock and stared at him with rapt awe. No one had ever looked at Theon with awe before. Was this what it was like to be an older brother?

He let Robb follow him around after that. Somewhere along the line, tolerance grew to acceptance, which grew to expectation, which grew into something like affection. And sometime after Theon realized what it was, with much less horror than he should have felt, he realized _he_ was the one following Robb.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments and concrit always welcome.
> 
> Chapter 3 will be posted next week.
> 
> Enjoy my little visual aid. There are lots of relationships to keep track of here. Black=a soulmate that hasn't been met yet.


	3. Opposed in Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting into some chronological shenanigans here.

Catelyn Stark had two rings, one on her ring finger and one of her middle finger. They were both blue. The one on her ring finger belonged to Ned, because he shared the same mark. The one on her middle finger had a break in it. Whoever her second soulmate was, they were dead.

Ned Stark had three rings: blue on his ring finger, of course, to match Catelyn’s; green on his index; and red on his little finger. Theon wondered if one of those was the woman who had given birth to Jon Snow. If so, she was still alive, since neither of those bands were broken.

He was not introduced to the bastard with the other Stark children, but rather met him later. And not properly. Mostly he saw the quiet, dark-haired boy wandering in the halls or the courtyard, his eyes always downcast. Theon hated him right away, because the first time he saw him, the black band on both their middle fingers turned pink.

Not only was he a boy lover twice over, but he was shackled to some whore’s son.

What had his mother said about pink?

 _Those in rose are those opposed_.

“Pink is a tricky color. It’s a color of change, like the sky at dawn or sunset. Those who share a pink bond are meant to complement each other, to draw out the true self through challenge and change. Pink is also the color everyone shares on the inside. Though pink soulmates may appear very different on the surface, underneath, they will find they actually have quite a bit in common.”

Theon did not want to have anything in common with a bastard.

Robb was the one to finally insist on giving them a formal introduction. “This is Jon Snow,” he said. “He’s my brother.” And Theon saw a distinct look of gratitude on the bastard’s face. Which might explain why they shared the same green mark on their ring fingers.

Theon wasn’t used to seeing brothers bonded in such a way. Parents, children, siblings. It just didn’t happen. He’d asked his mother once.

“I love you, Mother.”

“I love you too, love.”

“But we’re not soul marked.”

A look of infinite patience came over her face as she drew him onto her lap. “No, love. You were born from my body, and I love you to the very depths of my bones. But the bond of Fate is…different.”

“Different how?”

“When you meet your soulmate, you’ll want to be with that person. Not because your blood binds you, but because your souls fit together so well. It will feel right.”

“But…I want to be with _you_. Forever.”

She’d chuckled and snuggled him closer. “Ah, my sweet boy. One day you’ll understand.”

He did now. He knew about matters between men and women. So, Robb was bound _that_ way to his brother. The Seven looked down upon such things, though the Drowned God didn’t particularly care, nor did the Old Gods, to his knowledge. And it seemed, in this case, Fate didn’t either. Or maybe it was because they were only half-brothers.

In any case, their bond was easy to see. What was harder to see was why Fate had seen fit to tie Theon to some misbegotten bastard. And also a son of the man who could kill him. It had to be some manner of cruel joke. Theon had given in to Robb, but he wouldn’t give in to Jon. And Jon made it exceptionally easy. He was a mopey child, quiet and sullen. He rarely smiled, was prone to crying. A word could set him off.

Antagonizing him became one of Theon’s favorite pastimes.

“Why are you so mean to him?” Robb was ten by now, but still acted like he was five. He always had a five-year-old’s understanding of the world. “I think the two of you could really get along, if only you were nicer to him.”

Theon scoffed. “He’s a bastard. I don’t need to be ‘nice’ to him.” They sat on the bank of the pond in the Godswood, and he paused to toss a stone. It meant to skip, but he must have put too much force into it, because instead it sank right to the bottom with an unceremonious _plop_. “On the Iron Islands, he’d be a peasant, no matter how highborn his father was. He’s lucky he gets to live in a nice castle with a family that takes care of him.”

Robb didn’t reply, and they sat in silence as the ripples on the pond faded.

 

***

 

It almost pissed him off how Jon never fought back against his jabs; he seemed incapable of it. He was either too stupid or too soft to give back as good as he got, and most times the best he could come up with was a muttered, “Go fuck yourself, Greyjoy.”

“Oh, the bastard’s decided to grace us with his presence.”

“Go fuck yourself, Greyjoy.”

“Sorry, Snow, but horses are for highborn lords only. If you want to join our hunt, you’ll have to follow on foot.”

“Go fuck yourself, Greyjoy.”

“Oh, not going to sit with us, Snow? Lady Stark making you eat with the dogs, where you belong?”

“Go fuck yourself, Greyjoy.”

Like the rising of the sun, Theon had begun to take it for granted. Until one day, the sun didn’t rise.

They were celebrating Catelyn’s name day. Preparations for a feast were well underway, and the boys had been told to make themselves scarce so as not to be underfoot. And so they sat on the bank of the pond— _Theon and Robb’s_ pond—dipping their feet into the water. Theon hated that Robb had brought Jon here, to their place, and he took his anger out by snapping twigs off a low-hanging branch and tossing them into the pond.

“I wish Mother would let you come to the feast,” Robb said. “It’s so unfair.”

“I wouldn’t want to go anyway,” Jon sighed.

“Perhaps we can pretend it’s _your_ mother’s name day,” Theon said, flinging a twig with undue force into the pond. They weren’t as satisfying as rocks, since they floated; no amount of force could get them to sink. “I’ll take you to the whorehouse in Winter Town and treat you to your first fuck in her honor.”

“Theon!” Robb scolded.

“What? I had my first fuck on my name day.” And had obsessively checked the woman’s hand for a matching soul mark; he would have fled had he found one. “And no one offered to pay for it.” He waggled his eyebrows at Jon. “What do you say, Snow? I know a girl who doesn’t mind if you call her ‘Mommy’ while you’re inside her.”

 _Go fuck yourself, Greyjoy_.

But those weren’t the words that came out of Jon’s mouth.

He jumped to his feet, fists clenched at his side. “You’re a shit stain, Greyjoy, you know that? I don’t _want_ to go to Lady Stark’s feast, even if she did want me there. Which she doesn’t. Nobody pretends to want _me_ around, unlike you.”

Theon froze, arm stretched back to throw another twig. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jon puffed out his chest. “Robb’s the only one who wants you around. The rest of us tolerate you, but I think half of Winterfell secretly wishes your father would just rebel again so we could be rid of you.”

Theon’s mouth fell open. The twig fell from his hand. For a moment, he sat there, numb.

“Jon!” Robb scolded.

Theon jumped to his feet to meet Jon. At fourteen, he was taller than him, but Jon didn’t flinch, but just stared up at him, jaw jutted out, eyes hard. Theon wanted to wipe that defiant look off his face.

“Robb’s a better soulmate than a bastard like you deserves!” he spat. “I bet all your other marks belong to thieves and whores.”

Jon just stared at him in confusion. “What are you _talking_ about?”

Theon clamped his mouth closed. He’d said too much in his anger.

Robb looked from Jon to Theon and back.

Finally, Theon jabbed his finger at Jon’s chest. “Robb is too nice to you.”

“Robb is too nice to _you_ ,” Jon spat back.

“Stop!” Robb cried. “This isn’t necessary.”

“No, I’m done talking to a bastard,” Theon said. “Tell him to know his place.”

“I do know my place,” Jon said. “It’s you who doesn’t know yours.”

Robb sprang up and grabbed Theon’s arm, and that was when Theon realized he’d made a swing at Jon. “Please,” Robb pleaded. “Don’t do this. I don’t want you to fight.”

Theon pulled out of Robb’s grasp. He could hardly see straight through his anger. He could hardly breathe with them pressing in on him, ganging up on him. He lifted his finger, such an impotent gesture, and pointed it squarely at Jon. “At least…” He didn’t even know what to say. “At least I’m not a bastard!”

It rang hollow, even to his own ears.

And with that, he turned and stomped away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Lord Commander.”

Jon’s hand immediately went for his sword, and he had to force himself to relax when he saw Satin in the doorway. _I don’t trust my own brothers anymore_ , he thought ruefully. Brothers who had stabbed him in the back. With that sort of “brother,” who needed the white walkers?

“Riders at the gate,” Satin said.

It took Jon a moment for the words to take meaning. “Riders? At this time of night?” Nothing good could come from that.

“An old man and a girl.” The light from Satin’s torch played on his face. “He says it’s your sister Arya.”

In a flash, Jon was out the door and heading for the gates, Satin in tow. He saw them huddled in the courtyard, a half circle of torches amidst the snow. The night was oppressive, stifling even, and Jon pulled his cloak tighter around himself as he neared them. Trying to muster the authority of Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, something that seemed so elusive to him after dying at the hands of the very men he commanded.

“Let me through,” he ordered, and the men made way, revealing a stooped old man holding the reins of a horse, upon which sat a small, childlike figure. Arya? He squinted against the dim light. Could it be her? Had Mance not failed after all?

“M’lord,” the old man rasped. “I…brought her to you safely. Your lady sister.”

“I see.” Jon took a step forward, and the old man took a step back. “And who might I thank for this?”

The old man hung his head and muttered something under his breath.

“I’m afraid I can’t hear you,” Jon said. “Speak up.” He already suspected some sort of trick; his patience was dangerously low.

“Reek, m’lord. No one.”

Jon closed the distance between them, though the stench coming off the old man was horrid. His hair was thin and matted, and his clothes were hardly rags. Jon looked to “Arya,” who had made no attempt to greet him. “Who are you?” Jon repeated. “What became of Mance Rayder?”

The old man shook his head.

“Answer me! Or I’ll send you both away!”

“Th-Theon!” the old man cried. “Theon Greyjoy, m’lord. I was her father’s ward.”

Jon balked in surprise. “Theon?” He leaned in close. “No, he’s dead.”

“Not dead, m’lord.” He hugged himself tightly.

This was certainly not the Theon he’d known, cocky and arrogant, a constant smirk plastered on his face. _What happened to you?_

Jon turned his attention to the child figure. “And who—?”

“She’s Arya, m’lord.” A gnarled, bony hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Your lady sister. I rescued her from the bastard of Bolton.” His breath was rancid, and it was all Jon could do to keep from gagging. But the man’s eyes. He knew them. Never thought he’d see them again.

“It _is_ you,” he breathed. “Theon.” He felt at his side for his sword. “You have a lot to answer for.”

Theon ignored that. “Your lady sister has had a rough journey here.” His eyes darted meaningfully to the child on the horse. “Please don’t turn her away.”

Then Jon knew something was very wrong. “Arya?” He turned to the figure on the horse.

“Yes, my…Jon,” she answered back in a timid voice, and after too long of a pause.

Theon’s grip on his shoulder became strong. “Please,” he whispered. “I will explain it all, but you _cannot_ send her back there.”

There was no reason to trust Theon, and many reasons not to. Then why did he want to? Curiosity, he told himself. Curiosity at what had brought the proud Greyjoy boy to…this. It had to be curiosity, because otherwise it was desperation and foolishness. The desperation to trust someone again and the foolishness to believe he could.

“Satin!” he called, and the man stepped forward. “Tell the spearwives to see to my sister, Lady Arya.” He gave the girl on the horse a skeptical glance. “She is to receive a meal and a room of her own. Any man who so much as lays a hand on her will get the noose. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Lord Commander,” Satin agreed, and ran off to do as he was bid.

The grip on Jon’s shoulder fell away. “Thank you,” Theon whispered.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Jon muttered. “I’m simply reserving judgment until you’ve explained yourself.”

 

***

 

“Jeyne Pool?” Jon shook his head. “Gods, I haven’t seen her since…didn’t she go south, with Sansa and…?” He trailed off.

“Ned,” Theon finished for him. He stared into his tea. Tea was a strong word. It was warm water with leaves in it, some concoction the Wildlings made. “Her father was killed, defending Ned. She fell into Littlefinger’s care, and he sold her to the Boltons, passing her off as Arya.”

“So…you don’t know where Arya is?”

Theon shook his head. “To my knowledge, she disappeared in King’s Landing. The Lannisters never did find her.”

Jon was silent. It was a lot to take in. Arya may yet be alive and unharmed. Bran and Rickon may yet be alive and unharmed. That gave him more hope than he’d had in a long time.

The fire crackled, but Jon had not been warm since the Red Woman had brought him back. He was cold, always cold. But perhaps the fire simply wasn’t doing its job properly, because Theon shuddered violently under his pile of furs as well. He gripped the mug and turned it in his hands; Jon couldn’t help but notice that several of his fingers were missing. He hadn’t spoken much of what had happened to him as a prisoner of the Boltons, just that he had forgotten his name.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“What?” Jon blinked and realized Theon was staring at him.

“You met someone after you left Winterfell. Someone you cared for deeply. Someone who challenged you and made you a better person.” Theon intertwined his remaining fingers. “Someone who died.”

Jon’s throat seized up. “Ygritte?” The name slipped past his lips. Then he found himself angry. “How do you know about Ygritte?”

“She was your soulmate,” Theon murmured into his cup.

Jon stood. “You don’t get to talk about her.”

Theon drew his tattered lips into a tight line. “Sorry.”

“Don’t just say sorry. How did you…?” Jon took a pace forward and back, before finally deciding to sit close to Theon, so he could pin the other man with his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to look away. “How did you know about that?”

A pale tongue darted out to lick at Theon’s chapped lips. Shifting anxiously, he set the mug down. “Your…” He fiddled at the stump of one of his missing fingers, the ring one. He wouldn’t be drawing a bowstring any more, that was certain. “Your band is broken,” he said meekly.

“My…band?” Jon inched closer. “What are you talking about, Theon?”

He winced at the name. “The band breaks when they…when they die.” He clutched his hand to his chest. “You have two broken ones. I have two as well. I _think_ I only have two.” He said this last part so quietly that Jon wasn’t sure he heard him correctly.

“Theon, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Theon shook his head. Wispy strands of white hair clung to his sweat-soaked forehead. And yet he continued to shiver violently. “I should have been with him when it happened. Where was I? Where was I?”

He was somewhere far away. Whatever the Boltons had done to him had touched his mind as well. Jon found it increasingly difficult to hate him, to keep his anger up.

Suddenly, Theon’s eyes snapped back to Jon. There was a clarity there. “He was your soulmate too,” he said through trembling lips. “We both lost him.”

“Who?”

Jon already knew.

“Robb,” Theon said, in a thin, broken wail.

A memory came unbidden to him. _Robb’s a better soulmate than a bastard like you deserves! I bet all your other marks belong to thieves and whores_. He didn’t know why he remembered that, except perhaps that it was the angriest he’d ever been able to make Theon. So angry, in his memory, that Theon had started spouting nonsense. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Theon buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry I was so awful to you, Jon.”

Jon had been waiting years to hear an apology from his childhood tormentor, and yet somehow, it made him feel hollow. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not alright,” Theon said with a fierce shake of his head. “I was jealous. I hated having to share Robb with you, seeing how happy he was around you. I only wanted him to be happy around me. Can you imagine? What a horrible thing. I wanted my soulmate to have less happiness so he would only belong to me.” He looked up from his cupped hands. His eyes were bloodshot, his face skeletal in the light of the fireplace. “I thought I hated you.”

Jon was at a loss for words. He sank back on his haunches. “Theon…”

Theon shrank back and averted his eyes.

Jon put a hand on Theon’s knee. It felt like a twig under his grasp. And even as gentle as he tried to be, Theon still whimpered like he had been struck. Like he was _about_ to be struck.

Jon hadn’t heard the term soulmate before that day at the pond, but he had heard it since. Bits and pieces of whispered folklore among the Wildlings, stories of Fate binding two people together with invisible threads. If there was some truth to it, some way certain people had of being able to see those threads, well…it wouldn’t be the most outlandish thing he’d learned was true in the last few years.

“Was Robb my soulmate?”

Theon gave a single, timid nod.

“How do you know?”

Theon was quiet for a while. Then, slowly, he reached out, tentatively asking for permission with his eyes. Jon nodded, and Theon threaded their right hands together. It was awkward with Theon’s missing digits, but their middle fingers pressed together.

“They said you were dead, but I knew you weren’t,” Theon whispered. “My band wasn’t broken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's confirmed soulmates besides Theon:
> 
> Green: Robb  
> Pink: Ygritte  
> Yellow: I know who I had in mind, but I'll leave that up to reader's choice.


	4. Serene in Green

Sansa had five soulmates as well, one on each finger. Theon was equal parts relieved and horrified when the black bands on both of their ring fingers turned green. Relieved because it proved he was not a boy lover—or, at least, he had a way to prove he wasn’t if anyone grew suspicious. Horrified because Ned Stark would have his head if he found out, Greyjoy rebellion or no. The man seemed to churn out soulmates with his dick, and now Lady Catelyn was pregnant again and Theon still had two black bands left.

At first he had no interest in Sansa. She was an infant when he arrived at Winterfell, barely able to walk. And by the time she grew old enough to play, Theon had moved on to older girls. While she played with dolls, he played with the serving girls. He couldn’t imagine how a child could be his soulmate, let alone green.

_A green bond is a serene bond_.

That’s what his mother had said. And though there had been precious little natural green on the Iron Islands, she’d shown him painted pictures in the storybooks Uncle Rodrik sent from Harlaw. “Green like the leaves on the tree,” she said, pointing. “Those bound in green are so similar, it’s hard to tell them apart sometimes.” She chuckled at that. “Their souls are cut from the same branch.”

Theon saw it in Robb and Jon, who were bound with green, but him and Sansa…it seemed unlikely. At best, he could see a political marriage between them. The heir to the Iron Islands and Lord Stark’s oldest daughter. But why would they need a soul mark for that? And a green one at that?

 

***

 

He was fifteen and she was eight when Lord Stark announced they would be attending a ball to celebrate Wyman Manderly’s fiftieth name day. Jon, of course, was not invited, and Rickon was too young to make the journey to White Harbor, but the rest of the Starks were expected to go. Theon would have denied it if anyone had asked, but he was thrilled to go, not least because apparently he was now counted as one of the Starks.

 Unofficial Stark he may have been, but he was still very much a Greyjoy, and nobody at White Harbor wanted anything to do with a Greyjoy. So he stood near the wall, watching the revelers dance, trying to look as aloof and disinterested as possible.

Occasionally a serving girl would catch him watching her and return his smile, and maybe later he could talk one into a quick bit of fondling in the kitchens. But they wouldn’t approach him during the party; serving girls did not dance with lords.

In the meantime, he would just have to put up with the whole boring affair. Leaning against a column, watching as the greenlanders laughed and danced with abandon across the hall, he hated that he had ever felt excitement at the prospect of a ball. At dressing up and mingling with the lords and ladies of the North as if he were one of them.

He was just contemplating another cup of ale when he heard a soft cough, as if someone were clearing their throat. He turned to find Sansa fiddling with her skirts. “Would you…dance with me?”

Theon looked around. “My, that’s very bold of you, my lady.”

Sansa’s face turned as pink as her dress. It was the most colorful thing here, aside from the occasional head of limed hair; Sansa truly did look like a little princess amongst the common folk.

“You’re all alone here,” she mumbled at the ground. “And you look so nice, you should be dancing.”

That surprised Theon. Not that he looked nice. He knew that. But that she had noticed.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa said with a quick curtsey. “I was straightforward and unladylike.” She mangled the larger words with her eight-year-old tongue but didn’t seem to notice, no doubt reciting them from memory of her lessons. “I will leave you be.”

“Well, wait now.” Theon pushed off from the wall. “I didn’t say no.”

Sansa looked up with wide, startled eyes.

He made sure to sigh, as if he were doing her a favor, and held out his hand. “Shall we dance, my lady?”

She smiled shyly and took his hand. He had to bend a bit to meet her and lead her out onto the dance floor. A cacophony of flutes and lyres was in full swing, and they jumped in amongst the moving dancers as if plunging into water.

Sansa was quite good, clapping her hands and turning her feet to the beat. Occasionally, due to her small size, she fell behind a step or two, but Theon was quick with a hand on her waist pulling her back into line and she would give him a grateful, gap-toothed smile.

“You’re good,” he noted.

“Thank you, my lord. You’re quite good as well.” She looked away with a shy smile. “I would like the opportunity to try my hand at true dancing, like they do in the south.”

“I think the little lords in the south would fight amongst themselves for the honor to dance with you.”

She glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye. “Really?”

“Absolutely. Those southern ladies would be mad with jealousy.”

Sansa blushed bright red, and Theon wondered if Lady Catelyn’s lessons had not included any warning about flattery. He’d been able to get plenty of common girls into his bed with some well-placed flattery, but a highborn lady like Sansa should know she was worth more than pretty, empty words.

“Your dress is lovely,” he continued. “What is the dye? Madder rose?”

“Oh.” Sansa looked startled for a moment. “Yes. Mother ordered it special for my dress.”

“The color suits you.” And it did. The pink made her hair all the redder.

“Thank you,” she said, blushing all the way to the dress’s collar. “You look quite lov—handsome yourself.”

He knew it, but it was nice to be acknowledged. “Thank you, my lady.”

“You’re the best dressed boy here,” she declared. There were stars in her eyes, and Theon wondered what little girl thoughts were floating about in her head. _He’s not like the boring Northern boys. He’s like a prince out of a storybook. But Mother says he’s dangerous_.

Theon smirked to himself. _Oh, Sansa, you don’t know anything about dangerous men_. Not that he would ever dream of hurting her, captor’s daughter or no, but her naiveté was charming.

“I’m glad I asked you to dance,” she said.

“I am glad as well,” Theon said, and found he meant it.

 

***

 

It was a month or two after Lord Manderly’s ball that Sansa’s little friend came to get him—he seemed to remember her name was Jeyne. She was an unremarkable girl, though she was not often seen without Sansa and Theon wondered why the two were not soulmates. Then again, Sansa had her fair share of soulmates—five, though Theon was the only one she had met yet—and Jeyne had only one, which she had not met yet.

In any case, she did not often seek Theon out, so it was a surprise to find her at his bedroom door. “Oh, Theon, I’m so glad I found you. You have to come right away.”

“What for?”

“Sansa needs you.”

He noticed she was out of breath, and his heart seized in panic. Was Sansa hurt? “Take me to her,” he said, and she eagerly grabbed his hand and pulled him along.

His mind raced. Why would Sansa send for him and not, say, Robb or her mother? It must be serious if she could not come herself and instead had to send Jeyne for help.

Jeyne was silent, offering no explanation. Though Theon had an inkling he was the victim of a jape as she led him to the playroom. He burst in to find Sansa wrapped head to toe in a white, lacy curtain.

“Sansa?” He looked around the scene they had set up for him: rows of dolls arranged to face a table draped in the matching white, lacy curtain. It looked like some sort of religious rite, a sacrifice. “What…is going on?”

“We need you to play a part,” Sansa said.

“A very important part,” Jeyne agreed.

Theon’s panic fled with a deep sigh, replaced by aggravation. “You brought me here to play dolls?”

“No, of course not,” Sansa said.

“We’re too old to play with dolls,” Jeyne agreed.

“Were having a wedding and we need a groom.”

Theon looked at the tableau again. He supposed the dolls might look like guests and the table might look like an altar. Sansa looked like a caterpillar in a cocoon, however. “Are you supposed to be the bride?”

“Naturally,” she said in that childish way she pronounced long words.

“Why can’t Jeyne be the groom?”

“Because she’s a girl,” Sansa said. “Girls can’t marry girls.”

“I’m the septon,” Jeyne announced.

“Girls can’t be septons either,” Theon pointed out. “Anyway, can’t you ask Robb?”

“Ew! No, he’s my brother.”

“Jon?”

“I don’t _want_ to marry Jon. I _want_ to marry you!”

Theon blinked. “Really?”

She nodded emphatically, rustling the curtain over her head. Patches of red hair showed through the gaps in the lace. “Please, Theon.”

He sighed.”Fine…but let’s make it quick.”

They had him stand in front of the “altar” while Jeyne led Sansa down the “aisle.” Sansa tripped over the curtain several times and had to be helped back to her feet. Once they had reached the altar, Jeyne hurried around them to play the part of the septon, joining their hands together.

“We are joined here today to wed Lord Theon Greyjoy and Lady Sansa St—”

“No,” Sansa interrupted. “Theon’s a prince. And I’m a princess.”

Theon raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t realized until that point, but Sansa had _ambition_. A need to prove herself higher than those around her, better, worthy of nothing less than perfection.

He wholly approved.

_I will make you a princess_ , he thought. _No, a queen. Queen of the Iron Islands. You’ll be a wife all men will envy. And I will be a husband all women will envy_.

“Oh, sorry,” Jeyne said sheepishly. “Prince Theon Greyjoy and Princess Sansa Stark. Please recite your vows.”

Holding hands, they took the oath of the Seven, and Theon was given an old rug to serve as his cloak to set on her shoulders.

_We’ll be married for real in the sea_ , he thought, _as King and Queen of the Iron Islands_.

 

***

 

He thought of that day when the royal procession arrived at Witnerfell. When Prince Joffrey bowed before Sansa and the bands on both their thumbs turned red.

And when Ned announced their marriage, Theon realized what a naïve child he’d been, to think his captor would wed him and Sansa and call him son.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She was not the girl who’d left Winterfell; he was not the boy she had left at Winterfell. Sansa bit back her surprise at seeing him again, the man she had once considered family. Jon had warned her, and she’d seen much and more in her journeys, but it was still a shock. Gone was the handsome young man, replaced by a shadow of a ghost.

He hurried to stand as she entered the room, and stumbled in the process. He shifted from one foot to the other, as if standing pained him. He hid his hands behind his back and his teeth behind tight lips, but nothing could hide the pain behind his eyes.

They stared at each other for a long moment, and she wondered what he saw in her eyes.

“It is good to see you…well,” he murmured at last, “m’lady.”

She inclined her head slightly. “And you. Are you well?”

“Better than I deserve.”

She suddenly couldn’t remember why she had pressed Jon to arrange this meeting. What could they possibly have to say to each other? What did she expect him to say?

“I am so sorry, Sansa,” he said, “for all the pain I’ve caused your family.”

There it was.

“I don’t know how I could ever make amends. Jon had spared my life but…” Slowly, he lowered himself to his knees. “It is yours to take, rightfully, as Wardeness of the Vale. As Wardeness of the North.” He hung his head.

“Enough,” she said. “I don’t want your head, Theon. I want…” What did she want? “I want to know why.”

“Why?” he repeated. “Why I took your brothers captive and killed your people?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid the answer would not satisfy you, m’lady.”

She bent to be on his level, but he would not look at her. “Any answer would be better than nothing. Even since I learned of your betrayal, I have struggled to think of what we had done to deserve your hatred. Living amongst the Lannisters, I thought perhaps I knew. But I need to hear it from your lips. Why did you hate us?”

He fiddled with his fingers. Several did not move properly, and she suspected they were either maimed or missing under his gloves. “I was not hate,” he answered softly. “It was idiocy. Naivety. I thought family and honor and glory would be worth more than what I was throwing away.” He lingered on his index finger, stroking it idly with a haunted, faraway look in his eye. “I knew what I had, Sansa. I knew. I saw it there, right on my hand. But I wanted what I didn’t have. I made a choice. Please, you must believe me, it was not a decision I made lightly. A poor decision, one I cannot take back, one I _would_ take back…”

“Theon, you’re speaking in riddles.”

His eyes snapped back to her. Jon had said his mind had been damaged, that she was not likely to get a straight answer from him.

He stared at her, then at her hands as they rested on her knees. “I’m glad he’s dead,” he said. “He was not worthy of you.”

She frowned.

“Joffrey,” Theon said. “I heard about his death but your band…I’m glad it’s broken. Red soulmates…” He trailed off, now idly stroking his thumb. “You know, I never worried about losing you. Even when he took my finger, I always knew you were alive. I always thought, if I have survived this, then surely Sansa had survived as well.”

She felt tears well in her eyes but couldn’t say why. She hurriedly brushed them away. Crying was for foolish little girls. “We are survivors, aren’t we, Theon?”

He looked up at her, and she saw tears in his own eyes.

She couldn’t say what possessed her—she was still a long way from forgiving him—but she leaned forward and pulled him into a hug. And let him rest his head on her shoulder.  And it felt more like coming home than when the knights of the Vale had opened the doors to Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's confirmed soulmates besides Theon:
> 
> red=Joffrey  
> blue=imma go ahead and confirm this is Margaery, 'cause you know I ship these two  
> yellow=you decide ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° )  
> pink=the Hound, because I will force life back into this ship
> 
> Also, quick note, since I'm having an identity crisis about the ending of this fic. There are two options about how this is going to end:
> 
> A. Lowkey and understated  
> B. Epic with a lowkey epilogue
> 
> Which would you rather see?


	5. Bled with Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings, warnings, warnings. Please look at the new warnings.
> 
> This is Ramsay's chapter. If you're here for fluff, might want to give this chapter a skip.

“I think,” Ramsay purred into his ear, “that we were made for each other.”

 

***

 

Theon found his fifth and last soulmate in the cells under Wintefell. The black rings around their thumbs turned a matching red as Theon eyed the man up and down. A brute, bred from peasant stock. A criminal. Well, Theon had practically told Fate to go fuck itself when he’d invaded Winterfell; just because Fate had decided to connect them didn’t mean he needed to acknowledge it. Still, he tried to remember what his mother had told him about red.

 _Blood is shed by those in red_.

“This one is easy,” she’d said. “Red is the color of blood, and blood is what ties these soulmates together.”

“Like family?” little Theon had asked.

“No, not blood that flows in the veins.” She had not smiled then, the way she usually did when explaining things for him to understand. “Red soulmates are bound by…spilled blood…in battle, for instance. Often you will see a red mark on those who have fought together and spilled blood for a common cause.”

Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon both had red marks on their little fingers.

But there was another aspect, and Alannys spoke softly as she touched the red band on her own finger. “There is often a struggle for power between red soulmates…one who dominates and one who is dominated.”

Theon hadn’t understood until he’d seen it in action himself, how amongst those with matching red soul marks, one tended to be dominant and the other submissive. He wondered at his mother’s mark, who she could be bound to in such a way. She seemed a gentle person, the one to be dominated in a bond. His father, perhaps. Except that Balon was not her soulmate.

He studied his own soulmate now, such a horrid man. Obviously Theon was the one meant to be dominant between the two of them. He could use that to his advantage. He needed all the help he could get holding the castle.

He eyed the man’s hand ruefully. “What is your name?”

“Reek,” the man answered.

***

 

Reek turned out to be useful, if not more than a little insolent. He was ruthless in a way Theon admired and cruel in a way that made him sick. Theon didn’t want to be a cruel leader—he wanted to be _feared_ and _respected_ —But it seemed the people of Winterfell could do with a little cruelty, since they would not respond to anything else. He did not _want_ to be cruel, but he would rather be cruel than weak.

Reek taught him more than he would ever admit. How to rule through cruelty. How there was an element of unpredictability to it. How disobedience might be punished by losing a finger or death by beheading or perhaps simply a mere scolding. People were less likely to disobey if they were uncertain whether they would receive harsh words or the chopping block.

Reek also taught him how the _promise_ of cruelty could be as powerful as cruelty itself. How to keep a man waiting to know what he would get—words or a thick block to lay his head on. He saw it, how waiting could drive men mad, make them repentant like nothing else. Uncertainty and unpredictability, that was how you bent others’ will to your own.

Reek was a good teacher, but Theon was a poor learner. Every day the people of Winterfell slipped more and more from his control. He took his anger out on them, on his own men, on Reek. Anger was a nominal substitute for cruelty, and sometimes he even managed acts of cruelty he had not previously thought himself capable of. But more often than not, he felt like a child lashing out, the weak greenlander boy his father had accused him of being.

He watched Reek’s lessons without truly learning. If he had, he would have seen what was coming next.

 

***

 

Theon woke up strapped spread-eagle on a cross. The last thing he remembered was fire and burning and screaming. His lungs still ached from the smoke. There was a hand caressing his face.

“I saw you looking at my hand when we first met, Prince Theon,” Reek said, breath rancid as it hit Theon full in the face. Theon tried to pull away, but obviously found there was nowhere to pull away _to_. “I used to have this friend who told me he could tell certain things by looking at a person’s hands.” The palm of his hand was thick and rough, but the touch was oddly gentle and intimate. “Can _you_ tell certain things about people by looking at their hands, little prince?”

“I don’t…” The entire world was foggy, and he couldn’t seem to right his head. He couldn’t think past the ache in his arms and the hand on his face. “I don’t know what you’re…talking about.”

“I think you do,” Reek said. “Come now. There’s no need to play dumber than you already are.”

Theon’s head lolled back, but Reek grabbed his hair and yanked him upright again, so they were eye to eye. His blurry vision gave way to a room of stone walls, wooden racks, and metal shackles. The floor was dirt, with the intermittent splotch of something rust-colored. Reek held something in his other hand. A dagger with a curved edge. His hand had two soul marks on it.

Reek smirked and flexed his fingers, aware of Theon’s gaze. “He was very special, this friend of mine. He always said we were made for each other.”

“He’s dead,” Theon croaked.

Reek pointed the knife at him, his smirk growing wider. “You _are_ like him. You can see whatever it was he saw.” He leaned in closer. Theon could feel the sweat of his skin against his own. “So, are _we_ made for each other, little kraken prince?”

Theon was too terrified to answer. His throat bobbed as he tried desperately to draw in a breath, but all he could breathe in was Reek’s sweat, the cloying scent of smoke and blood on his skin and clothes.

“I think we are,” Reek said. “I think you’re my new Reek.”

 

***

 

And so, Reek became Ramsay and Theon became Reek.

“Reek—the first Reek,” Ramsay corrected as he forced Theon’s right hand out flat on the carving block, “told me I had two marks on my hands. And he said the one that meant _we_ were made for each other—the two of us, Heke and I—was on my middle finger and that it was blue. Is that what you see?”

Theon hadn’t spoken to anyone besides his mother about the soul marks, not except for that one slip-up with Jon. It had always felt like a secret, something that might even get him killed. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Are you sure about that?”

The flaying knife came to rest against the underside Theon’s fingernail. He couldn’t see it, the way Ramsay had him pinned to keep him from squirming, but he could feel it. His breathing hitched, but he couldn’t pull away. Even if he wasn’t weak from days without food or water, Ramsay’s grip was like iron, keeping him in place as surely as any manacle.

“You have a blue mark,” he gasped as the knife began to bite into his skin. “It’s broken, because he’s dead.”

“That’s better.” The knife didn’t stop, though. “I already knew that, but it’s good to know you can be persuaded to tell the truth with a little…pressure.” He pressed the knife harder, edging it under the quick, and Theon sucked in a breath, determined not to scream under any circumstances. “So tell me about you. How many marks do _you_ have?”

Ramsay couldn’t know about his soulmates. Nobody could, but Ramsay least of all. “One,” Theon answered quickly.

“No.”

The knife slid in, monstrously slow. Theon gasped at the white hot pain. Tear prickled in his eyes.

“Three!” he cried, because two might sound like too much of a lie.

Ramsay sighed. “You are a very poor liar.”

Theon’s world turned blinding white as the knife parted nail from skin. It felt like someone had set fire to his fingertips. He screamed and bucked, but Ramsay held tight, his movements as calm and as practiced as turning a page in a book.

“Five!” Theon yelled. “Five, I have five!”

When the world returned, now in sharp, painful clarity, Ramsay had turned and was smiling at him. “Five,” he said in mock awe. Or perhaps it was real awe. “Five marks on your five little fingers.” He pinched Theon’s fingernail and wiggled. Theon gritted his teeth and tried not to piss himself. “How did you get five whole people to care about _you_?”

Theon was aware of tears streaming down his eyes, and blood streaming onto the chopping block. “Please.”

Ramsay just continued to smile. “So, who are they? Who was made for you, Reek?”

Theon shook his head. No, no. “I don’t...”

Ramsay clucked his tongue and yanked on his fingernail. It came away and Theon howled.

“I don’t want to hear ‘I don’t know,’” Ramsay said, moving the knife to the next fingernail. “I don’t want to hear ‘no’ or ‘please.’ When I ask a question, I expect you to answer it. Is that clear, Reek?”

Theon bit down on his lower lip until he could taste blood on his tongue.

“Good. Now, let’s start with this finger.” He worked the tip of his blade into the quick. “Whose mark do you wear on this finger?”

Theon held out for another two nails, but in the end, he gave Ramsay all the names he wanted. Robb, Jon, Sansa…it felt like betraying them all over again.

 

***

 

He flayed them all off. Took the knife to his knuckles and cut until the colored lines all turned red.

“Even if you saw any of them again, they won’t want to see you,” Ramsay said as he cleaned his knife and Theon tucked his raw fingers against his chest, shivering. “You need to face it. I’m the only one who wants you now.”

He gave the blade one final wipe with the hem of his shirt, then set it aside and turned back to Theon. Theon curled in on himself. It was his only defense. And not a very good one, because Ramsay easily hauled him up and forced him back against the saltire. He’d learned the respites were few and far between.

“I mean, what would they say if they saw you now? Knowing what you’ve done?” Ramsay tied his right hand too tight, causing the flayed flesh to throb. “I’d love to see it. Sansa Stark, who saw her own father beheaded in King’s Landing, knowing you beheaded her younger brothers as well.”

“I…I didn’t…” Theon protested weakly.

“And Ned Stark’s bastard.” He laughed at that, because that was the one that seemed to amuse him the most. “How does it feel knowing a bastard has more honor than you do?”

It was a double-edged sword. Ramsay was a bastard too. But Theon had learned that was a weapon _not_ to use against him. It only brought more pain.

“And let us not forget Robb Stark.” Ramsay finished tying his other hand and paused to caress Theon’s face—face rough from several days’ worth of beard growth, hand rough from grisly work. There was a gentleness there, though, something that almost bespoke genuine affection. “He’d take your head himself, no doubt. What if I sent the skin from your finger to him, hmm? Would he even understand the significance? You never told him you were made for each other, did you?”

A sob bubbled up in Theon’s throat.

“But of course, Robb and _Theon_ were made for each other,” Ramsay said, quite seriously. His pale blue eyes bored into Theon’s. “You’re just Reek.”

 

***

 

He had tried to escape. It had ended badly. Kyra was dead and Theon deserved to die. He felt it as deeply as the pain in his bones. Ramsay had finally succeeded in breaking him.

Or so he’d thought.

Until the day—perhaps a week or two after they had left Kyra’s mangled body in the woods—Ramsay came into his cell smiling and hastily undid the straps holding Theon in place. He collapsed to the ground, arms and legs too weak to support himself. He yelped as his maimed hand brushed the rough dirt. Ramsay tsk’d and knelt down to take the hand in his own.

“How is your hand?” he asked, looking meaningfully into Theon’s eyes, though Theon couldn’t decipher _what_ meaning, exactly. He didn’t know how to answer, which seemed to disappoint Ramsay, who stood. “I’ll give you a few days to consider it.” And with that, he left.

Theon didn’t know what was going on, what game Ramsay has planned this time. But he was free from the cross. He scooted into a corner, pulling his aching knees up to his chin and wrapping his aching arms over his knees.

A long time passed. Theon couldn’t say, because the door only opened twice to throw scraps of food in for him—rotten vegetables, moldy bread, rust-flavored water. He crawled out from his place by the wall, ate, and crawled back. He was left alone long enough that his wounds began to heal—the broken bones in his feet, the whip marks on his back, the brand burns on his chest, stomach, and arms. And his fingers. So slowly, a thin layer of skin began to reform over his knuckles, and the colors with it.

Then Theon realized the game. The blue band on his index finger had a gap in it. It was broken.

He was still sobbing when Ramsay finally came back for him. Gathered him in his arms and cradled him like a child.

“How?” Theon gasped.

“How what?” Ramsay asked innocently.

“How did Robb die?”

“The Freys stuck him full of arrows, but my father was the one to put a dagger through his heart.” There was a manic tone to Ramsay’s voice. It must have taken an immense amount of patience to let Theon’s skin grow back, to hold in news of Robb’s passing and not say anything lest he ruin the surprise. “They cut his head off and sewed his wolf’s head in its place. Paraded his body around the Twins.”

Theon sucked in a shuddering breath, but his body seemed unwilling to make any more tears.

“They say the King in the North broke his oath to old Walder Frey because someone had broken his heart.  Spurned the old man’s daughters to chase some Westerling cunt. I wonder, do you suppose they were made for each other—the Young Wolf and his cunt bride—or do you suppose he was trying to plug a hole someone else left in him.”

Theon closed his eyes. Robb had died hating him. He’d killed Robb. He’d killed Kyra. And now…he killed Theon. Buried that person deep away. Theon was gone.

There was only Reek.

 

***

 

“Reek, Reek, Reek, Reek,” Ramsay chanted as he pounded into him. He finished with a low, drawn-out growl and collapsed on top of Reek, still inside him, plugging the seed and blood from seeping out. Their sweat mingled together, and Ramsay’s heaving chest pressed against his back. “Ah, my sweet Reek. You’re so good to me.”

Reek didn’t respond. That’s what being good to Ramsay meant, knowing when to talk and when not to.

Eventually, Ramsay’s breath evened and he pulled out of Reek and collapsed next to him. A moment later, Reek felt a hand threading through his hair, gently. Or maybe it just felt gentle because he’d never really let anyone touch him before.

“I love you, Reek.”

The words cut deeper than any flaying knife ever could.

A moment of stunned silence passed before Reek stammered out, “Thank you.” It wasn’t the right response, but it was all he could think of, all he could feel. He couldn’t remember hearing those words ever, not as Reek and not as Theon.

Nobody had ever loved him before.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update on Monday.


	6. Gold is Bold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of the same from last chapter, but this one also has some dark!Theon, particularly concerning his treatment of Kyra during _A Clash of King_. Theon (and Planetos in general) doesn't really recognize revoked consent, so he considers his actions "hurting her" rather than rape. It's a short, non-graphic scene, but it is there and it is meant to make you uncomfortable, so just a head's up.
> 
> This chapter also contains more Ramsay. There will not be a lot of fluff. Sorry in advance.

When Theon learned that Kyra was his fourth soulmate, he nearly ran. Jon was bad enough, but at least he had probable deniability. He was a bastard, but he was Ned Stark’s bastard. Kyra was common. Pretty, but common.

She was also insistent and surprisingly bold behind closed doors. “I don’t normally do this sort of thing,” she’d said as she’d tugged at the laces of his breeches. “I’m a good girl.” She gave him a saucy wink.

He’d let her proceed, telling himself it was a one-time thing. But then he’d felt her mouth around him, and it was all he could think about whenever her saw her around after that. That and the yellow band on her pinkie finger that matched his.

 _Brash and bold are those in gold_.

“But gold is for greenlanders,” Theon pointed out when his mother told him this.

“Ah, but those who share a gold bond always pay the iron price,” she’d responded. “Red soulmates will fight for a cause, and sometimes each other. But gold soulmates…those are the ones who will fight for each other, against all odds. You must never underestimate a gold bond, my love.”

And Kyra did fight for him. She sought him out, time and again, even when he tried to avoid her. Theon liked being pursued. He liked being sought after, even if he suspected it was more for his status or even his cock rather than any real desire to be with him.

 _Perhaps she will be my salt wife_ , he thought, _after I am married to Sansa. After all, Fate has tied us together. And she really does use her mouth so well._

 

***

 

She was crying.

“Why are you crying?” he demanded. “This is what you wanted. You fought to be here. And I fought for you to be here. I took Winterfell. I fought for you. I _am_ fighting for you, you ungrateful bitch.”

She wouldn’t look at him as she pulled her clothes on, hastily. Her sobbing filled the room, grated against Theon’s ears.

“Get out!” he screamed, but she was already running, slamming the door behind her.

Theon sank back down on the bed. His limbs were shaking, partly from the lingering nightmare and partly from what had just happened. There was blood on the sheets. Not much, but still, he shouldn’t have been so rough with her. He shouldn’t have…

He clenched his fist under the pillow. “I don’t need her,” he muttered aloud to himself. “I don’t need any of them.”

She’d come back anyway. If he was feeling magnanimous, he might apologize and give her something from Lady Stark’s jewelry to make it up to her.

 

***

 

He woke up to the clanking of keys.

“K-Kyra?”

He hadn’t seen her since Reek…since Ramsay had taken Winterfell. Her eyes and cheeks were sunken, and her hands shook as she fumbled with the lock.

“We’re getting out of here,” she informed him.

She had come for him? Why would she come for him? After the way he’d treated her, after he’d gotten her home burned down. Why would she bother?

The lock clicked and the door swung open and she reached out her hand for him. “Hurry,” she said. “We’re going back to Winterfell.”

There was no time for questions, then. No time for apologies or explanations. He took her hand. She hauled him up, with surprising strength in her wiry frame. Her hair billowed out around her, wild and unkempt. She looked like a Wildling. Theon clung to her, his foot still broken from being crushed. He doubted he would ever walk on it properly again.

Clutching each other, they hobbled from that horrid place. Kyra used her keys to open a grated door that led out under the Dreadfort, not far from a river. That had to be the Weeping Water.

“Where do we go?” Kyra asked.

Theon looked up into the sky. He was not a navigator, but he knew east from west. He pointed towards the sun. “That way.”

They travelled in silence. There was so much Theon wanted to say to her, but he didn’t dare speak. Their breath needed to be saved for walking. Once they were safely away from this place, they would speak.

He watched her, the hard set of her face as she focused on the path ahead of them. The way strands of hair fell over her face, but she was too intent to brush them away. She was beautiful, and even though Ramsay had flayed away his soul mark, he felt bound to her more than ever.

 _I’m sorry_ , he thought. _I should not have hurt you. I should have fought to protect you. I’m sorry._

The need to speak boiled up so high that he opened his mouth to say the words, only to be drowned out by the blare of a horn and the barking of dogs.

Kyra’s eyes widened as she turned to him. “He’s found us.”

Theon, his mouth already open, flapped his jaw for a moment. “You…” He pulled out her grasp. “You have to go. We have to split up.”

“No.” She latched onto him.

“It will be harder to find us,” Theon insisted. “M-my foot. I’ll only slow you down.”

She shook her head, wild hair flying about. “I won’t leave you.”

“He’ll find us and kill us both.”

“Don’t leave _me_.”

The sounds of barking and the thumping of horses’ hooves grew louder. There was no time to argue. Theon let her take his hand and run. His foot felt like a war hammer was driving in a thousand sharp needles with every step, but he couldn’t stop. They couldn’t stop.

They ran. Brambles caught on their clothes, their hair. Branches slapped their faces.

They made it to a stream.

They didn’t make it any farther than that.

Ramsay made him watch while they tore her apart—dogs and men alike. She died fighting.

 

***

 

Arya Stark had grey eyes and two soul marks. Jeyne Poole had brown eyes and one soul mark.

“You have to help me,” she begged. She looked like Sansa had that day, wrapped in a curtain. A child playing at a wedding. “Please, Theon.”

Reek flexed his fingers, the ones he still had. Robb and Kyra’s broken bands still remained.

“It’s all right,” he said. “It took me a long time to learn my new name, but I learned. You’ll learn too.”

 

***

 

Jeyne did learn. She learned not to disobey. She did her best to follow Ramsay’s orders, even when it came to Reek— _put your tongue there, put your fingers there_. She always choked an apology when Ramsay had her do something to him. Reek wanted to let her know it was fine. She wasn’t hurting him. And if she was, he deserved it. And if he didn’t, then it was Ramsay behind it and not her. If anything, _he_ should be the one apologizing to _her_ , because she shouldn’t have to touch him at all, and anyway Ramsay made him do worse things to her.

There was one thing he could do for her, laughably impotent and so insignificant she couldn’t possibly notice.

“I don’t like when you spend time with your wife,” he said during one of his rare moments alone with Ramsay, this time in an abandoned hallway. Ramsay insistently pushed down on Reek’s head, but Reek needed to say his piece. “I don’t like when I have to share her with you. You’re _my_ soulmate, not hers. She doesn’t deserve you.”

Which was true, and Ramsay might even have known in what way it was true. He only grunted and pushed Reek to his knees with one hand while fumbling with his belt. “Don’t you worry, sweet Reek. I’ll have more time for you once the bitch is carrying my son. I cannot play too roughly with her with my heir inside her. Then it will be just the two of us again. Like it was meant to be.”

Reek nodded in meek acceptance and did not push any further. As he helped Ramsay undo the laces of his breeches, he found himself thinking about Jeyne’s soul mark. She had just the one. A yellow one on her ring finger. She’d met someone who was willing to fight for her. He wondered who it was. That person obviously wasn’t here now.

 

***

 

There was a knife pointed in his face and Reek found himself oddly hopeful.

“Forget it, Holly,” the woman with the long black braid hissed to the woman holding the knife. “He won’t help us. He won’t betray his master.”

Reek swallowed thickly.

“Sure of that, Willow?” the woman with the knife said expectantly. “See something, do ya?”

Willow nodded. One of her eyes was a cloudy blue that gave Reek odd memories of a previous life and an uncle with an eye patch. “He’s bound t’ Bolton’s whelp.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Red. ‘Course.”

Reek drew in a sharp breath. The cold air froze in his lungs. These were not ordinary camp followers. In fact, he was inclined to believe they were not ordinary women in any sense of the word.

He held out a trembling hand. “You…you can see it? _Them_?”

The other women’s eyes widened, but Willow’s eyes narrowed. She pushed past Holly and grabbed hold of Reek’s wrist. “Well, I’ll be fucked. Never thought t’ meet a southerner could see soul marks.” She studied his hand. “Ye’ve got a lot of soulmates.”

“And let more than one down,” Reek agreed.

Her eyes met his. Her gaze was as intense as Ramsay’s, and he had little doubt she could detect a lie just as easily as he could. “You’re a man who’s rejected love all his life,” she declared with certainty, and Reek couldn’t disagree.

“Reek is no man,” he answered.

She curled her lip.

“But I will help you.”

“You’d help us betray your soulmate?” the woman with unruly brown hair asked skeptically.

 _I am a coward if I do and a coward if I don’t_ , Reek thought ruefully, though he couldn’t blame them. He _was_ a coward.

“Ramsay may be my soulmate,” he declared, “but Bolton’s bride is also my soulmate.” He wiggled the stump of his ring finger, where he had finally begged Ramsay to rid him of his flayed digit. But perhaps he could use his missing soul mark to his advantage. “We are bound in gold. I’m supposed to fight for her.” He held his breath.

Willow cocked her head. “You’ve done a poor job of it.”

“As I said, Reek in no man.”

“Well then.” Holly stepped forward again, knife pointed towards the ground and not at his face. “You will help us get her out of the castle?”

“I will,” Reek agreed eagerly. “But...you must take me with you. Or, failing that…” He nodded meaningfully to her knife. “You will end me—end both of us—if we are caught.”

Willow grinned wickedly, revealing crooked teeth. “Don’t worry. If it comes to it, we will break your master’s red band rather than return you to him.”

 

***

 

They were caught.

Reek saw Willow Witch-Eye take an arrow through the neck. Jeyne screamed as her body hit the ground. Angry shouting filled the courtyard.

Reek’s mind blanked. Otherwise he might have surrendered and begged for forgiveness, told Ramsay the women had forced him to do it or made up a story that he was only trying to keep Jeyne from escaping. But in an animal-like panic, there were no thoughts except _, No, no, no, no, no_.

He didn’t think about how he was betraying Ramsay as he hauled Jeyne up the stairs to the ramparts. He didn’t think about how he was running from the only person in the whole wide world who cared about him as he pulled the both of them up onto the crenellations and saw a sea of whiteness down below, like oblivion waiting to swallow them up. He didn’t think about how Ramsay’s love was the only love someone like him could ever know as he and Jeyne flew into oblivion.

 

***

 

They ran.

“This way,” he urged, pulling on her hand.

She stumbled, her breath coming out in sobbing gasps. “I…I can’t.”

“You must.”

The snow was deep, and running felt more like swimming. He could do that. He could swim. He could drown if need be. He pulled her along, yanking on her arm in a way that would have been cruel if both their lives were not on the line. More than their lives. She had to know that. She had to know he wasn’t _trying_ to hurt her.

“I can’t keep going!” she cried out. “Please, Theon!”

He froze at the sound of his name. His grip on her loosened and she fell, collapsed. The snow swallowed her up.

He plunged in after her. Grabbed her wrist and hauled her out. She was crying. He pulled her close to him, rubbed at her back. As if his bony frame could breathe any warmth into her.

“Please, Jeyne,” he whispered. “We have to keep moving. If he finds us…”

Kyra’s screams still rang in his ears. She had died and he had never apologized to her.

Jeyne clutched his arms tightly. “Don’t leave me, Theon.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “I won’t leave you.” He rocked her back and forth. He had failed Kyra. She had fought for him, but he had never fought for her. He had failed Robb. And Jon and Sansa. He had even failed Ramsay. All of his soulmates. He’d failed every single one. But not Jeyne. “I’m going to fight for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting the ending and short epilogue tomorrow. Check in then if you want some fluff.


	7. Epilogue: Kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for a round of Good News/Bad News.
> 
> Good News: Everyone voted for an epic ending, and I wrote that ending!
> 
> Bad News: It was kinda messing with the overall tone of the story, so I'm not posting it here.
> 
> Good News: I am still posting it, and you can read it here:
> 
>  
> 
> [Part I](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11525775/chapters/37778126)
> 
>  
> 
> [Part II](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11525775/chapters/37807361)

Jon was the first person he ever kissed full on the mouth, though neither of them ever brought it up afterwards. It had been a game of chicken between them, see who could stare the other down without flinching.

He had just been trying to make Jon flinch, bringing their faces uncomfortably close together. Jon should have just flinched. If the bastard had just _flinched_ , their lips wouldn’t have awkwardly smashed together.

In truth, it was only a brief moment. Theon was hardly aware of the warm, soft skin against his own lips before he realized what had happened—Jon realized at the same time—and they were pulling away from each other. Turning their heads and spitting.

Jon wiped at his mouth with his sleeve. His lips were flushed, probably more from that than the inadvertent, half-second kiss.

Theon was livid. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Wrong with me?” Jon squawked. “ _You’re_ the one who kissed _me_.”

Theon clenched his fist and for a second thought about punching Jon in the nose, just to punish him for being right. But then he’d tell Robb, and if Robb asked, Jon would say that Theon had kissed him, and then Robb would get the wrong idea.

So instead, he grabbed Jon by the collar and pulled him so they were nose to nose. Jon had the decency to flinch then.

“Don’t tell Robb.”

Jon glowered back. “Why would I tell _anyone_?”

It seemed they were in agreement then.

“Good,” Theon said, letting him go. “Nobody needs to know. We don’t need to talk about this ever again.”

“I’m tired of talking about it already,” Jon agreed.

As they stormed off, Theon felt at his still-tingling lips. _At least if that bastard is my first kiss, I’m his too._

 

***

 

Kyra’s first kiss came after she had used her mouth of him. Theon could taste himself inside her parted lips. She was a sloppy kisser, all teeth and spit, with far less finesse than she’d shown while on her knees. Theon didn’t care. She was wanton, and her desperate kissing felt like a desire for _him_.

When they finally broke apart, they were both panting heavily.

“You…won’t tell no one, will you, m’lord?” she said, wiping the saliva and seed from the corner of her mouth. “If my parents found out…”

Theon grabbed her hips. “Don’t worry,” he said with a wink. “I won’t tell your parents.”

Her face was flushed, and the swell of her breasts became more pronounced with every heaving breath. “Would m’lord like to do this again sometime?”

He steered her close and gave her another long kiss on the mouth, trailing down her neck. She moaned. “We shall see,” he answered at last, because if she realized how much he desired to have her again, she would have leverage over him. “Perhaps I will find time for you again.”

 

***

 

Theon brushed his lips across Robb’s knuckles, paying special attention to the blue mark on his index finger he would never know was there.

“What are you doing?” Robb asked.

“I am paying proper respect to the King in the North.”

“Theon,” Robb laughed. “That’s how you pay respect to a lady, not a king.”

“Ah, then I suppose you will just have to be the Queen in the North instead,” Theon said, straightening back up and giving Robb his best lopsided smile. “And I’ll be your king, then.”

Robb threw his head back and laughed, exposing the long column of his throat. “Your jokes keep getting stranger and stranger.”

Theon smiled to show that yes, he was joking. But he wasn’t joking. _I would be your king, Robb Stark. Or your queen, if you would have it that way. I would be whatever you want, serve you whatever way you need. You’ve ruined me, Robb Stark._

To his shock, Robb pulled him into a tight hug. Theon went rigid.

“I don’t know how you are able to continue to joke and laugh, but you must never stop, Theon. If it weren’t for you, I would drown among all these grim bannermen.”

Theon relaxed and returned the hug, putting his hands on Robb’s neck so he could whisper into his ear. “Anything you want.” He placed a kiss to the juncture of Robb’s neck and ear, and perhaps it was his imagination that Robb shuddered in his arms. “I am your brother, now and always.”

 

***

 

Reek lay awake long after his master had fallen asleep. Moonlight spilled in through the window, bathing everything in an eerie glow. The nights were becoming colder, longer. Every night Reek spent warming his master’s bed was a night he did not have to sleep in the kennels; warming a bed went two ways, after all.

Slowly, he sat up and leaned over to Ramsay’s sleeping form. He felt his master stir. If Reek took it into his head to try something stupid, Ramsay would be awake in an instant, and Reek would be very sorry. Reek didn’t have anything in his head at that moment, though. He just wanted to study Ramsay while he was still and peaceful.

Reek felt a certain peace himself. He’d driven everyone else away. Now there was only Ramsay left, persistent, patient. He _wanted_ Reek. More than anyone ever had.

A swell of gratitude filled him, and he leaned down and brushed a soft kiss against his master’s cheek. He sat back up and smiled, despite himself, at the small smile gracing Ramsay’s lips.

 

***

 

Theon bolted awake. There was someone in the room with him. One of the Night’s Watch come to finish him? They had sent a noisy assassin, carrying a candle in one hand. He saw the face illuminated in its soft glow.

Sansa.

“I’m sorry to wake you,” she said softly, setting the lamp on the stand by his cot.

His willed his breathing to slow. “It’s no trouble, m’lady.”

“I was speaking with Jeyne.” She sat down at the end of his cot, hands folded in her lap. “I never knew what happened to her after Father…” She trailed off. “Thank you, for helping her.”

What had Jeyne told her? No doubt she had made him seem much braver than he actually was if Sansa felt the need to thank him.

“I should have helped her sooner.” He looked down and realized he was not wearing any gloves. Sansa should not have to look at his mangled hands. He quickly shoved them under the threadbare sheets. “A real man would have.”

A thin smile appeared on Sansa’s lips. “She thinks of you as more than just a man.” She inched closer, hesitantly, feeling out his boundaries, or perhaps her own. “She thinks of you as a prince out of a storybook, just like we used to play when we were children.”

Theon could not meet her gaze. There was a time when he would have reveled in such flattery, but now it felt hollow, unearned.

He was startled when Sansa leaned in and cupped his head in her hands, placed a gentle kiss against his forehead. “I have arranged for you and Jeyne to be taken to safety. I only ask that if the Long Night comes and the battle turns against us, you will continue to protect her.”

Theon lifted his head. “I promise it, my lady.”

 

***

 

He hated the way Jeyne idolized him; it reminded him how he did not deserve her adulation. Her infinite patience. She sat in her chair by the fire, her knitting needles knocking together rhythmically. Wool was hard to come by in the winter, even this far south, in the Reach, and Theon hated that she was wasting it on him. Gloves.

He got up and threw another log onto the fire. Their supply was running low. New wood wouldn’t be delivered until next week, by the same old woman and her daughter. All the men were gone. Dead fighting for the Tyrells or the Lannisters or Queen Daenerys or the living. Holding the line. Theon felt especially impotent here, hiding with the women, children, and old men in the Reach.

“Thank you,” Jeyne murmured as he stoked the fire. Her voice was muffled through her scarf. The freezing cold gave her an excuse to wear it, but she no more wore it for warmth than he wore his gloves for warmth.

 _You don’t need to thank me_ , he thought bitterly as he took his seat next to her.

Their cottage was small, a single room for the both of them. In his first life, Theon would have thrown a fit and demanded better lodging. Now, he was grateful for such a closed in space—less room to heat. At night, they shared a cot. Theon had tried sleeping on the floor at first, but after he woke one morning with a terrible cough, Jeyne insisted he sleep with her. “I know you won’t hurt me,” she’d whispered as he’d settled in next to her that first night. There was warmth that way. Not much between them and their thin bodies and their threadbare sheet, but enough.

He sat now, watching her fingers as she worked her needles. Her yellow band flashed with every movement. There was no break in it.

“Jeyne.”

She looked up, not missing a stitch.

“Did you meet someone…in King’s Landing maybe…who…?” He gnawed at his lip. A surgeon had removed the broken teeth from his mouth, but his gums still ached constantly. “Someone who cared for you and stood up for you…perhaps?”

If her soulmate was alive, he would find that person, bring them back here. Jeyne deserved to have that, at least. And then, perhaps he could consider his oath to Sansa fulfilled and make his way back North. To die.

But Jeyne shook her head. “No.”

“No one?” Theon pressed.

“No,” she repeated. “Since Father died, you’re the only one…”

Theon stared into his lap. “No one,” he said, softly. He imagined her, a girl all alone in a strange place, surrounded by everyone who meant to harm her and no one who meant her well.

He was startled when he looked up to find her standing next to him, her knitting discarded on her seat. Her hands, though chapped from housework she was unaccustomed to, were warm against his own. “I know you dislike being saddled with me,” she said.

“No,” he said, grasping her hands back. “You are the one who is saddled with me.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, hesitantly pulled one of her hands free from his and reached up to pull her scarf down, her yellow band on display. The surgeon who had removed Theon’s teeth had also removed the frozen skin on her nose. She thought herself a horror to behold, but Theon’s eyes were drawn to her smile, so weak. He did not recall having seen her smile before. Not since she was a child playing make-believe.

“We are saddled together,” she said. “But somehow, I feel Fate intended as such.”

Theon brushed the hair from her face and pulled her in. She inched closer. Perhaps she could feel his fear; he could feel hers. Slowly, they drew together until their lips met.

Perhaps they weren’t soulmates, not the way Fate had intended, but he drew comfort from her, and she drew comfort from him. It was like his mother had said. “When you meet your soulmate, you’ll want to be with that person. Not because your blood binds you, but because your souls fit together so well. It will feel right.”

And it did.

It felt right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and leaving comments and kudos. 
> 
> <3 VW


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